


To El Salvador and Back

by Merricat Kiernan (rosa_himmelblau)



Category: Wiseguy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:27:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27401185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosa_himmelblau/pseuds/Merricat%20Kiernan
Summary: Vinnie was abducted and taken to El Salvador.Wasn't he?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	To El Salvador and Back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Martha J Bonds (April_Valentine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/April_Valentine/gifts).



> from an idea by Jeannette Paris

It had been pouring rain when Frank arrived at Vinnie's for dinner, and he'd been soaked to the skin. Vinnie had insisted he shower and change while dinner was cooking, and Frank had agreed; pneumonia was the last thing in the world he needed.

Vinnie had been moving back and forth between the kitchen—where he was preparing some recipe of his mother's, and the living room—where a basketball game was blaring from the TV. With Frank's arrival he added the bathroom to his route, asking Frank how he felt, keeping him up-to-date on the game Frank couldn't have cared less about, just small talk. And everything was fine.

And then he said it. "I can't wait for you to meet her, Frank. Her name's Violet, and I know you're gonna be crazy about her." Vinnie's voice faded as he moved away from the bathroom door back to the kitchen.

That was when the world stopped. Frank stood in the bathroom, holding the socks he'd just taken off, his brain frozen. _Another one, another one._ Another woman in Vinnie's life, another one to compete with for his time, his attention, his affection. _Another one, another one._

And he snapped. Still holding the socks, he walked to the kitchen.

"—this incredible red hair, Frank," Vinnie was babbling, talking to himself, really, since he knew Frank couldn't hear him in the bathroom. "It's natural, too, you know? I mean, it just grows out of her head in this incredible color—" Sensing Frank's presence behind him, Vinnie stopped, turning around. First surprise, then amusement came into his face as he looked at his partner, his friend, standing naked in his kitchen, holding his socks. "Something wrong, Frank?"

Without thinking, Frank dropped his socks and punched Vinnie in the mouth as hard as he could, knocking him down.

The next thing he remembered doing was going to DC to see Beckstead—who was, in Frank's estimation, acting odd. Then Uncle Mike had called and it had all begun—the searching, the terrible, haunting worry—where could Vinnie be? Frank had to find him.

Frank had only kept Vinnie in the trunk of the car while the house was being searched. After that he'd taken him up to the attic and cuffed him to a pipe. Vinnie hadn't struggled at all, really; he'd talked to him in that calm, quiet, reasonable tone and Frank had ignored him. "Don't do anything," he warned. "I'll be back later." And then he went off to coordinate the search for his missing partner.

Vinnie sat on the floor of his attic, trying to make sense of it all. Clearly Frank had flipped out—he still didn't know why he'd punched him, let alone stashed him in the trunk of his car or cuffed him to a pipe in the attic of his own house. There had to be a good reason, though—Frank always had a good reason—so Vinnie waited.

The door opened. Frank came in with a bowl of chicken noodle soup, a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk.

"Frank, what the hell's going on?"

Frank gazed at him for a moment as if he'd never seen him before.

"Frank!" Vinnie rattled the handcuffs.

"Don't worry, Vince. I'm looking everywhere for you. It won't be long before I find you and bring you home, safe and sound." He turned to leave.

"Frank! I **am** home—this is my house—Frank—!" He grabbed Frank's hand. "Talk to me!" he demanded. He noted absently that there were bits of white paint on Frank's hand.

Again that distant, unknowing gaze. Vinnie let go of Frank's hand, chilled.

The door closed.

What the hell was going on?

Of course it would be easy enough to break a window, get someone's attention, get out of here. But Vinnie rejected that idea. He'd had worse things happen to him, and he wasn't really worried about his own safety or well-being—he was worried about Frank's.

The first real fear Vinnie felt came when he heard the footsteps mounting the staircase. They weren't Frank's—and he wasn't in a good position to defend himself should they belong to someone with hostile intent. The door opened.

"Hello, Buckwheat."

Life was becoming surreal. What the hell was Roger doing here? Vinnie thought he should have been relieved to see Roger, but instead his involvement in this whole thing—whatever this whole thing was—filled Vinnie with panic.

Roger sauntered into the room, over to Vinnie, examining the way he'd been handcuffed.

"Roger," Vinnie began desperately, "Frank's cracked—"

"You're telling me," Roger muttered. "I mean, look at this. I don't know what he thinks he's doing—he's got you way too close to that window—this whole operation is so amateur it can't possibly work. I don't think he knows what he's doing."

"Roger! I'm locked in my own attic and you don't even ask why, you just critique the way it's done?! He locked me in the trunk of his car!"

Roger looked interested. "I wondered where he stashed you while they swept the house. Now **that** wasn't too bad an idea. Probably had it parked right out front the whole time, too. Good thing they didn't bring in bloodhounds."

"Roger!"

"Vinnie, have you **asked** him why he's doing this? Maybe he has a good reason."

_A good reason. A good reason for kidnapping me and keeping me locked in my own house._ Though that had been his own reason for not making waves, hearing Roger say it made it seem too ridiculous to even discuss.

"I don't see any point to the handcuffs, though," Roger went on, producing a key. "That door's got a good sturdy padlock—what do you keep up here, anyway?"

"Roger, what the hell's going on? What did Frank tell you? Why is he doing this? Why are you helping him?"

"The real question, Buckwheat, is why are **you** helping him? Ask yourself that." Roger handed him the key and left.

Vinnie had to admit, it was a good question. Why was he cooperating while Frank held him captive? His first thought was that he didn't want Frank to get in trouble. Kidnapping an OCB agent—even if you yourself were an OCB agent—was pretty serious stuff. It could screw up Frank's whole life. And it wasn't as if he was afraid of Frank—how could he be? Oh, yeah, he knew Frank could be dangerous, but that dangerousness had always been there to protect Vinnie, not use on him. Frank would never hurt him. Right now all he was really doing was inconveniencing him—and feeding him as if he were an eight-year-old. It would be ridiculous to ruin Frank's life over a little inconvenience.

_If it had been anyone else, a little voice told him, you'd be furious. But you're not even angry._

No, he wasn't angry because it wasn't anybody else. It was Frank. Roger's involvement was a different matter; it added a strange complexity to the situation, an x factor Vinnie couldn't solve. But that was all right, because there was still Frank, who was running the show. And Frank loved him. And he loved Frank. And when Frank came to give him his dinner, he'd tell him so.

Vinnie heard the snick of the key in the lock and stood up. Frank came in with a covered tray. "I have to go now," he said before Vinnie could speak. "I've got a plane to catch. We've tracked you as far as Miami—"

"Frank. I'm right here. I'm right here!" No longer restrained, Vinnie stood in front of the door, blocking the other man's path.

"Vince, get out of my way." Frank's voice was quiet, full of repressed violence, and for the first time, Vinnie was afraid of him. It was the fear that made him do it; he **had** to get Frank's attention. He put both hands on Frank's chest and looked deep into his eyes. "C'm'on, Frank. Lemme out of here and I'll make it worth your while. In fact, how about a show of good faith?" Kissing him deeply, he unzipped Frank's pants and slipped his hand inside.

Frank gasped. "What are you doing?"

"Pay attention, you'll catch on." And Vinnie sank to his knees.

He'd never given a guy a blow-job before, but he was pretty sure he could do it. And after a few seconds of hesitation, Frank was happy to cooperate.

The heat and fullness took some adjusting to, but then—well, he kind of liked it; liked the way Frank tasted, liked the sounds he was making—small, whimpering noises in his throat. He liked the feeling of Frank's hands in his hair, and the soft heat of his balls as Vinnie cupped them. He felt the throbbing grow harder, so he sucked harder, running a hand up and down the inside of Frank's thighs.

"Vince—Vince—!" Frank's hands were on his face, his cock was halfway down his throat, he was coming, Vinnie was choking, but he really, really liked it. He kept sucking till Frank pushed him away. "Oh, Jesus, Vinnie," he whispered, and knelt down with him, pulling him close. "I always wanted it to be like that with you. I miss you so much."

Roger's idea of dinner was far better than Frank's—he brought hamburgers, French fries, and beer.

"Roger, something's terribly wrong with Frank."

"Yeah, I know, but you seem to like him, so—" Roger shrugged.

"Roger! The two of you are acting nuts—has he said anything to you about why he's doing this?"

"No, but then I learned the best way to handle him is to shoot first and ask questions later. I haven't gotten around to the shooting so—no questions."

Vinnie had no idea what that meant, but he didn't like the sound of it. "Roger. Did he say why he was going to Miami?"

"I guess he's gone to hang out at the morgue. He said something about looking at dead guys' hands; he was checking them for white paint—the guys that grabbed you left a white handprint on the wall."

"Roger, there was white paint on Frank's hand."

Roger looked at him, clearly waiting for him to make his point. Vinnie felt as if he was drowning in absurdity.

"Frank says the guys who grabbed me left a white handprint. Frank has white paint on his hand. Obviously Frank left the handprint."

"So Frank grabbed you," Roger finished. "Didn't we already know that?"

"Right," Vinnie agreed, tired, defeated. After a moment he decided to try something else. "Look, if I promise not to leave the house or make any calls, can I at least sleep in my own bed tonight?"

"Gee, I wish I could help you out, Buckwheat, but it's just not possible. Your mom's getting in tomorrow, and she'll be staying here, so you're just gonna have to be real quiet."

"My mother? What's my mother coming for?"

"The memorial service."

" **What** memorial service? Who died?"

Roger smiled. "You did, Buckwheat. The service's Saturday."

It had been difficult staying quiet while his relatives filled the house and the wonderful smells of his mother's cooking wafted up to him, but Roger had snuck him up a lot of food and wine and eventually Vinnie had fallen asleep. Frank's voice wakened him.

"I can't stay long, Vince, I've got to get back to Miami, but I had to come for the service, and I wanted you to know we're close, we're real close. Pretty soon you'll be back and things'll be back to normal."

Vinnie didn't think so. "Frank, please—"

Frank stroked his face, then tenderly kissed his lips. "I'll always love you, Vince. I know you're not dead, and I swear, I'll find you."

Vinnie was too confused to argue.

Roger and Vinnie were playing cards when the phone rang and Roger went to get it. He left the door open, but Vinnie didn't leave the attic; he stood in the doorway listening.

"That's great news, Frank. No, I never believed it either. So, I'll see you tomorrow? OK, great." Roger hung up the phone and let out a whoop of joy. "Guess what, Buckwheat—that was Frank! He's found you, and he's bringing you home tomorrow!"

Vinnie just stood at the top of the stairs, shivering.


End file.
